


Sullen Disposition

by wesleysgirl



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 19:45:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4361873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesleysgirl/pseuds/wesleysgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for Stumbelina. Many thanks to TinPanAlley for the beta.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Sullen Disposition

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Stumbelina. Many thanks to TinPanAlley for the beta.

  
  
  
Wesley has a five inch scar on his throat and a sullen disposition, and although there's no way he could be   
unaware of the first, he generally tries not to think about the second. A sunny Pollyanna attitude is hardly likely   
to be a benefit to him anymore, if indeed it ever was.  
  
He gets jobs where he can -- at first a slow trickle and then, as word of his competence gets out, a more   
regular flow. Rather like a paper cut, he reflects as he examines the one he's just given himself on a file   
folder; the blood seeps into the wound. Hm, not such an accurate analogy then, as the blood never goes   
further than the edges of the cut.  
  
Wesley is not particularly fond of the sight of his own blood.  
  
He's been working out of his flat for some time, but now that his cash flow has become more consistent he's thinking about   
renting a small office space. That would give his operation the more professional aura which, he hopes, would bring in   
some of the higher paying clients.  
  
One has to spend money to make money, after all.  
  
A few hours looking at small offices doesn't do much to impress him, although he thinks one or two of them might do. It's after   
eight by the time he finishes looking at the ones on the list the realtor gave him, and he's tired and hungry, having   
continually told himself that he'd stop after seeing 'the next one' for some dinner but never actually managing it.  
  
Wesley walks along the sidewalk, trying to recall exactly where he'd left his car, and stop suddenly as a young woman   
steps out in front of him.  
  
"Hi," she says, sounding younger than she's obviously trying to appear in her low cut top and heavy black   
eyeliner. "You want to have some fun?"  
  
"No," Wesley says, a bit curtly, but it's not the first time he's been approached by a prostitute, and he's learned   
that any other sort of answer is just likely to result in a more avid form of persuasion on the young lady's part.  
  
Then Wesley really gets a good look at her. "Dawn?" he says incredulously.  
  
She looks up at his face for what he has to assume is the first time, and her eyes framed in their dark purple   
mascara coated lashes widen. "Wesley?"  
  
Dawn takes one startled step backward and Wesley can tell that it's the first of many, that's she's planning to   
bolt, so he reaches out and grabs onto her wrist to forestall that.  
  
He doesn't particularly feel in the mood to chase her down, and he suspects that's just what he'd do.  
  
"Ow! Let go of me!" Dawn protests loudly, as if she thinks she can bully him into backing down by making a scene.  
  
"Not until I find out what's going on," Wesley says.  
  
She seems to put up only a token struggle as he drags her to his car, opens the passenger side door,   
and deposits her on the seat. From here she could leave easily enough if she wanted to, but Wesley's not quite   
prepared to tie her up. He looks the girl over -- she's thin to the point of emaciation, pale, strung out. Roughly   
Wesley pushes up one sleeve, baring her arm to the elbow.  
  
Dawn squawks. "Hey!"  
  
The skin is unblemished. "Well, you're not shooting up," Wesley says. "At least that's something."  
  
"Fuck you," Dawn says, sounding more like a four year old trying the words on for size than like a tough street kid. "It's   
none of your business."  
  
"Listen to me," Wesley says. She's right; it's none of his business, and he surely has better things to do with his   
time than try to rescue a headstrong young girl who's never wanted anything to do with him. "I'm willing to   
buy you a meal -- no strings attached. By the look of you, you could use it, so why don't we dispense with the   
hostilities for now?"  
  
For a very long moment Dawn looks back at him, sullen and stubborn as, he supposes, befits a Summers girl.   
Then she says, "Okay. But only because I'm hungry."  
  
Wesley nods and closes her door, walking around and getting in behind the wheel as if he expects her to stay put.  
  
"I'm not familiar with this area," he says as he starts the car. "Do you have any suggestions?"  
  
"There's a diner around the corner," Dawn says. "But I've only had coffee there."  
  
"Is it good?"  
  
"The coffee? No, it sucks." Dawn looks out the windscreen.  
  
"Then perhaps we should go somewhere else." Wesley thinks about where they might go, and eventually decides   
on a chain restaurant that he knows is fairly close by.  
  
Dawn doesn't speak again until they pull into the parking lot an Wesley shuts off the engine. "What happened to   
your throat?" she asks flatly.  
  
"Someone tried to kill me," Wesley says. "Are you really working as a prostitute?"  
  
A pause. "Sometimes," Dawn says.  
  
That seems to set them on some sort of equal footing, and they both get out of the car at the same time.  
  


* * *

  
  
The waitress gives them a bored look as she drops off their menus. It's past the normal dinner hour and the   
restaurant is less than half full. They order without incident -- something that surprises Wesley -- and sit in   
silence until their drinks arrive.  
  
"How long have you been here?" Wesley asks then.  
  
"You mean in L.A.?" Dawn shrugs. "A while. Five months, maybe."  
  
That's longer than he would have thought. "What happened?"  
  
"You mean after Buffy died?" Dawn's voice is flat again.  
  
"I suppose so, yes."  
  
"They sent me to live with my dad."  
  
Wesley can tell that he's meant to know who 'they' are. "That didn't work out well, I take it?"  
  
"He didn't want me there," Dawn says. "Plus his new wife didn't like me. And I missed my friends..." She trails off as   
if aware that she's revealed more than she'd intended to. "Anyway... this seemed like as good a place as any. You   
know?"  
  
From Wesley's perspective, L.A. isn't high on the list of random places that seem ideal for relocation, but he   
nods. "Where are you staying?"  
  
"With some friends."  
  
Their food arrives then, and Dawn goes to work with a will, eating as though she hasn't seen food in days.  
By the look of her, that could very well be the case.  
  
Although Wesley is hungry, he eats more slowly. The food is average at best, and there are still times   
when he misses being able to have a proper pint with his meal, but if nothing else he's grown accustomed   
to American foods.  
  
He waits until Dawn is three quarters of the way through her meal before he asks, "Are those the same friends   
who convinced you it would be a good idea to sell your body for money?"  
  
Dawn looks up with a flash of anger, but the expression is quickly replaced by one that's much more jaded. "It's   
what I'm for," she says, stuffing the last bite of her cheeseburger into her mouth.  
  
Wesley has no idea what that's supposed to mean, but he does know that he wants to talk with her some more.   
He's left some things behind, but the desire -- the need -- to help people is still there.  
  
"Can I have dessert?" Dawn asks.  
  
"Of course."  
  
She looks at him appraisingly for a long moment, then she just turns to catch the waitress's eye and order   
pie a la mode and a cup of coffee.  
  
"Won't the coffee keep you up?" Wesley asks before thinking.  
  
Dawn rolls her eyes. "Why else would I drink it?"  
  
Wesley goes to the cash register on the other side of the restaurant to pay the bill, he turns his back on the   
table for less than a minute.  
  
When he turns around again, Dawn is gone, the booth where they'd been sitting empty.  
  


* * *

  
  
For the next several weeks, Wesley keeps his eyes open, especially when he's near the area where he first   
saw her. He's not actively searching for Dawn -- if he were, he'd have found her. It's more that he wouldn't   
want to fail to notice her.  
  
He gets his office space -- puts down a deposit, signs a lease. He buys some secondhand furniture and orders   
a small brass plate for the door.  
  
The nearest car park is within easy walking distance, so he purchases a monthly pass and finds a short   
cut through a rather unsavory alleyway that cuts two minutes off his time. He's been making the identical   
journey for close to three weeks when, one evening, he hears the sounds of a struggle, a small shriek punctuated   
by what sounds like a blow.  
  
Wesley moves quickly toward the sound and discovers a man holding a struggling Dawn by one wrist, his other   
hand up beneath her top as she attempts to get away.  
  
"Let her go," Wesley says calmly.  
  
"Mind your own business," the man snaps, barely glancing in his direction.  
  
"You know," Wesley says, getting out his gun and pointing it rather casually at the man, ignoring Dawn   
entirely in that moment, "I really am getting tired of hearing that."  
  
The man looks up, and his eyes widen. He lets go of Dawn and begins to back away, both hands held in the   
air in a gesture of surrender. "Okay, buddy. Just take it easy. It was just a little bit of fun -- didn't mean any harm."  
  
"Fucking asshole," Dawn spits, adjusting her top and crossing her arms over her chest.  
  
Wesley waits until the man is well gone before he puts the gun away. "Are you all right?"  
  
Dawn has a tiny trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth. "Yeah," she says. "It happens. Sometimes guys get,   
you know, carried away." But her voice sounds shaky, and Wesley thinks that she's not as blase about what just   
happened as she's trying to appear.  
  
Calculatingly, Wesley suggests, "He may wait around until you're alone again."  
  
"You think?" Dawn glances in the direction the man went.  
  
"Come home with me. You can stay overnight and in the morning I'll drop you wherever you like."  
  
Dawn is looking at him with a mixed expression of longing and defiance, but then she smiles as if she's trying to   
look older than she is. "Okay. But don't think you're getting a discount or anything just because I know you."  
  
In point of fact, there's little doubt in Wesley's mind that she'd charge him three times the going rate if she thought   
she could get away with it. "If you're that desperate for money, we can talk about what else you might do to earn   
some. But I'm not interested in having sex with you."  
  
"Right," Dawn says, with affected boredom. "That's what they all say."  
  


* * *

  
  
At the flat, Dawn makes herself at home, throwing herself down onto the sofa and ignoring the pile of papers that   
goes sliding onto the floor. Wesley rescues them without a word, moving them to sit on top of one of the bookcases.  
  
"Make yourself comfortable," he says dryly.  
  
"Thanks," Dawn says, putting her feet up on the table, revealing her highly impractical shoes and a bit more   
bare leg than Wesley thinks is wise.  
  
"Can I get you something to drink?" he asks.  
  
Dawn eyes him. "Beer?"  
  
"I'm not giving you beer," Wesley tells her.  
  
She pulls a face and shrugs. "Figures." There's a pillow on the other side of the couch, and she reaches over and   
grabs it, hugging it to her in a manner that makes her look even younger than she actually is. "So, is this   
what you do now? Since the whole Angel thing?"  
  
Wesley stiffens, but ignores the second question in favor of the first. "Is what what I do? Bring home  
young girls who work as prostitutes and let them sleep on my sofa? No, I can assure you, you're the first."  
  
"I meant..." Dawn frowns. "Okay, I don't know what I meant. I just... why am I here? If you don't want to have sex."  
  
"I want to talk with you. I want to make sure that you're all right where you are, which is something that might   
take a fair amount of convincing."  
  
Dawn sits up straighter. "Okay, first off, you can't make me stay here."  
  
"No, probably not. You proved that when you ran out on me the last time, didn't you."  
  
She has the decency to flush at that. "Yeah. Sorry. I mean, I appreciated the dinner, you know? I just didn't want   
things to get all weird."  
  
"I may not be able to force you to stay," Wesley continues, "but somehow I feel relatively confident that a  
phone call to the police department would reveal that you're on a national list of runaways."  
  
"Okay, okay! Geez. Don't go all narc on me. Fine."  
  
"Are you taking drugs?" Wesley thinks they may as well get down to brass tacks right away.  
  
Dawn hugs the pillow more tightly, keeping her eyes on the table in front of her. "Sometimes," she says finally.  
  
"But you're not shooting up." He hopes that's still true.  
  
"I don't like needles," Dawn says, shrugging.  
  
Wesley wonders if her shoulders ever get tired of making that motion, or if years of practice have built up the   
proper muscles. "Well, that's good. Things could be worse."  
  
Dawn begins to cry.  
  
It happens to suddenly that Wesley has no idea where it came from, what he said wrong, or if he ought to try to   
comfort her. He settles for retrieving a box of tissues and setting it down beside her on the sofa, then he  
reaches out to pat her shoulder tentatively.  
  
She doesn't turn to him for comfort, but she doesn't pull away either. She does reach for a handful of the tissues,   
holding them over her face as if she's ashamed of her tears. "Sorry," she says, muffled. "Can... can I use your bathroom?"  
  
"Of course. It's right back there."  
  
Wesley listens as she goes into the bathroom and closes the door behind her, then he goes into the kitchen to   
see what he might have to offer her in terms of food. There's not much -- he tends to grab meals out most of   
the time. After a quick search, he heads back toward the bathroom, thinking he'll ask if she'd like for him to   
order a pizza, but to his surprise the bathroom door is open, the small room empty.  
  
His first assumption is that she's gone again, but then he hears a sound in the bedroom and curses himself silently   
for being such a fool. The light in there isn't on, and he can't imagine she's having much luck finding things to   
steal in the dark.  
  
Dawn's look of wide-eyed red-rimmed shock when he flicks the light on is almost enough to make Wesley smile.  
  
"You seem to have gotten lost on your way back to the living room," he says.  
  
Caught with her hand in the top drawer of his dresser, Dawn blinks and steps away from the chest of drawers,   
dropping her eyes down to the floor.  
  
"I don't keep money there," Wesley says.  
  
Dawn mutters something he can't quite make out.  
  
"What?"  
  
Her eyes flicker up to meet his for a moment. "I said, I wasn't looking for money."  
  
Wesley waits patiently for an explanation.  
  
"I was looking for condoms," Dawn says, in a low voice, looking more embarrassed than he would have given her   
credit for. Perhaps she's a better actress than he's thought.  
  
After a brief pause, Wesley crosses the room and opens the one drawer in the small bookcase that isn't too far   
from the bed. He takes out the box of condoms that's there -- still unopened, but it doesn't hurt to be prepared --   
and offers it to her wordlessly.  
  
Dawn hesitates, then she reaches out and takes it, awkwardly, not really looking at him.  
  
"You need them more than I do," Wesley says, turning back toward the doorway and expecting her to follow. "I was   
going to order a pizza."  
  
She does follow him out into the living room willingly enough, setting the box of condoms on the sofa next to   
her and rubbing at the corner of her mouth as Wesley finds the phone number of the pizza shop up the street.   
"Do you want an ice pack?" he asks absently, looking at the takeaway menu.  
  
"What?"  
  
He glances up. "For your mouth."  
  
"Oh," Dawn says. "No, it's okay."  
  
They order a pizza and eat it, and slowly Dawn begins to talk about her life. She does it as if she's relating a   
story she's seen on television, as if it's something that's happening to someone else.  
  
"But it's fine, you know?" she says, toying with a piece of crust. "I mean, it's better than living with my dad. I don't   
need someone who doesn't give a crap about what happens to me telling me what to do." She sniffles.  
  
Wesley has been quiet, saying as little as possible so as not to interrupt her flow of words, but now he clears his   
throat. "It sounds as if you're the one who doesn't care what happens to you."  
  
Dawn looks as if she's blinking back tears. "Well it's not like some foster home would be better."  
  
"It might be," Wesley says. "Better than selling your body. You're more valuable that that, Dawn." He keeps his   
voice gentle, thinking that might get through to her more efficiently, slip past her defenses, so to speak.  
  
She snorts and wipes the back of one hand across her cheek. "Oh, I know all about how valuable I am. It's just too   
bad that only the bad things want me. That's what they made me like this for -- so Buffy could protect me."  
  
Wesley knows the story of Dawn's creation, but he hadn't realized until just then how much it must have affected her.   
"Buffy loved you," he says. "That's why she gave her life to protect you." He pauses, then he adds, "She wouldn't have   
wanted this for you."  
  
"Then she should have _stayed_ with me," Dawn says, her voice breaking. She gets up and moves to the other   
side of the room, rubbing her arms with her hands, the motion making her appear even thinner than she is.  
  
"I don't think she felt she had any choice." Wesley watches her standing there. "I can help, if you want me to. If you   
don't want to go back to your father, there must be other options. Options that _don't_ involve foster care," he   
adds quickly, to forestall her anticipated protest.  
  
"Like what?" Dawn asks.  
  
Wesley is thinking of Anne. "I know the person who runs the East Hills Teen Shelter. I can't make any promises until   
I've spoken with her, but she might be able to offer you something. A job. A place to live." He can probably work   
out a way to give Anne money toward Dawn's upkeep, if it's necessary.  
  
He owes Buffy that much.  
  
Dawn seems reluctant to agree, but Wesley can see what might be a glint of hope in her eyes. "Are they... are   
they nice? I mean, what if..."  
  
He's not sure what she was about to ask, but she seems disinclined to continue. "It would be a better solution   
for you. Better than what you're doing now."  
  
Finally, after what feel like very long minutes of silence, Dawn nods. "Okay," she says. "I'll try it."  
  
"Good," Wesley says, standing up. He'll call Anne in the morning. "Why don't you try to get some sleep?"  
  
He finds blankets for her, piling them on the end of the sofa, and makes sure to take his car keys and his   
wallet with him when he goes off to his bedroom for the night.  
  


* * *

  
  
Wesley must have been more tired than he'd realized, because when he wakes up he discovers Dawn has, during the   
night, got into bed with him. She's on the other side of the bed, curled up and facing him, one hand tucked underneath   
her cheek. She clearly failed to wash her face before going to sleep, as her eyes are still thickly coated with cosmetics.  
  
He can tell that it's early without turning his head to look at the clock -- the first morning's light is just coloring   
the world outside his window, and he's awake enough to recognize that he's lucky that climbing into his bed is   
the only thing Dawn decided to do while he was, clearly, very deeply asleep. Then he thinks that for all he knows,   
maybe it isn't.  
  
Before he can get up and find out, Dawn stirs and opens her eyes. "Hi."  
  
"Hello," Wesley says.  
  
"Um... I couldn't sleep. In the other room, I mean." She fiddles with the edge of the sheet.  
  
"So I gathered." Wesley is glad that he wore flannel pants to bed, although he wishes he'd put on a t-shirt.  
Dawn is looking down at the blankets. "Anyway, um... thanks. For trying to help."  
  
Wesley remains still. "Is that your way of saying that you aren't going to let me?"  
  
"No," Dawn says. "It's just... nice. I mean, you didn't have to. You _don't_ have to." She sighs. "Is it because of Buffy?"  
  
Unsure if it's the right thing to do -- he's realized some time back that there's never any way to know -- Wesley   
lies. "No, it's not because of Buffy. It's because of you."  
  
That brings a smile to her face, and she leans in quickly and presses her lips to his before he can do anything   
to stop her. It's just a brief kiss, nothing more, but Dawn pauses before pulling back, looking at him thoughtfully.  
  
"Nothing's going to happen between us, Dawn," Wesley tells her, very slowly so that she'll understand he's serious.  
  
Her eyes meet his for an instant. "I wouldn't mind," she says in a small voice.  
  
"That's not the point," Wesley says.  
  
"You don't like me," Dawn says flatly.  
  
"That," Wesley said, "is neither true nor the point. You're a bit young for me, don't you think?"  
  
"I've slept with guys way older than you. Twice as old, probably."  
  
Wesley thinks there's a good chance Dawn has no idea how old he is, but that's the last thing he wants to go into,   
not when he's half-dressed in bed with her. "Why don't you go take a shower, and I'll figure out what we're going   
to do about breakfast."  
  
Dawn pouts, then flounces out of bed, revealing her nearly bare bottom, as she clearly removed her skirt for   
sleeping and is wearing only a g-string in a bright neon purple with her top. "Fine," she says. "Just don't say I didn't offer."  
  
Averting his eyes until she's left the room, Wesley distracts himself with the idea of calling Anne as soon as   
the shelter opens. He sighs with relief when the bathroom door closes and rolls onto his back.  
  
He waits until he hears the water in the shower start running before pressing his palm against his aching erection,   
and until the shower door closes with a click to slip his hand under his waistband.  
  
After that, it doesn't take long at all.  
  
  
  
End. 


End file.
